


Hope Fades

by tourmalily



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-03
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 18:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/396763
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tourmalily/pseuds/tourmalily
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Meredith is dead and the Champion of Kirkwall flees the city with her companions, but did she push herself too hard in the battle?  Fenris vows that nothing will keep him from Hawke, even if he has to venture alone into the Fade to save her life.</p>
<p>Takes place immediately following the events of DA2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Promise me you won’t die.  I can’t bear the thought of living without you.”_

_“I don’t make that promise unless you do.”_

_“Nothing is going to keep me from you.”_

_  
_

Meredith was dead.  The battle was over, but the war had only just begun—Anders had seen to that.  Hawke stood in Gallows courtyard, flanked by her companions, surrounded by death.  The bodies of mages and Templars both were strewn across the flagstones, mangled by spells and blades or by the statues animated by the unholy magic Meredith commanded with that cursed lyrium sword.  Now, the misshapen corpse of the former Knight-Commander stood petrified in midst of the carnage, a burnt-out husk, contorted in pain. 

Hawke looked away, sickened by the sight of so much death.  How many had lost their lives tonight to Anders’ vengeance?  Her head throbbed. She pushed away thoughts of the dead mage, standing straighter.  She locked eyes with Cullen; the young Knight-Captain was now the ranking templar in Kirkwall.  He fought alongside her against Meredith, but his devotion to the order might demand that he try and hold her here in the Gallows.  Hawke fought the wave of weariness that washed over her and suppressed the urge to lean more heavily on the staff she’d taken from Orsino’s corpse.  There might be still more bloodshed tonight.

A few tense moments passed.  Hawke sensed the faint thrumming of Fenris’ lyrium tattoos as he hefted his sword, heard Bianca’s familiar _crank_ , and knew that Varric stood behind her with Cullen in the crosshairs.  She closed her eyes for a moment, too tired to fight anymore. 

_Let them take me_ , she thought.  _It can’t be any worse than what I’m feeling right now._  

It didn’t come to that.  Cullen simply lowered his sword.  After a moment’s hesitation, the Templars standing beside him also stood down.  She looked back to Cullen, raised her chin towards him in acknowledgement.  He returned her nod and sheathed his blade.  There was nothing left here for them.  The Champion and her companions turned and left the Gallows courtyard.

It was Isabela who broke the long silence as they trudged down the Gallows stair to the harbor. 

“Well.  That didn’t go exactly the way I was expecting.”  Hawke let out a short, humorless laugh.  She rubbed the bridge of her nose.  A haze was clouding her vision, but it quickly passed.

“No, I don’t suppose giant flesh abominations and lyrium idols were at the top of anyone’s “List of Things We’ll Face Tonight”, were they?”  She quipped.

“What, you mean you _weren’t_ expecting to find horrors born of pure nightmare?  Hmph!  You’re going soft, Hawke.”  Varric chimed in.  It was a familiar comfort, the back and forth.  Hawke clung to it, pushing away the exhaustion and the pounding in her skull.  She rubbed her eyes, willing the fog to dissipate.  She was _so tired_.  She tapped her mana, unnerved by how little she had left upon which to draw.  Absentmindedly she pulled a small vial from a pouch at her hip and swallowed the contents in a single gulp.

“I’ve never…I never knew anything like that existed.  That thing, I mean. What the First Enchanter became.  That anyone…could do that.” Merrill’s voice was a horrified whisper.  The elf was staring at her arms, crisscrossed with thin lines of scars from her extensive use of blood magic.  There was a haunted look in her eyes, a dawning realization of all that she had done. 

“And _now_ you see the horrors of blood magic.  Huh.  Too little, too late.  Would that you had understood the danger before your Keeper sacrificed herself to save your worthless hide.”  Fenris’ voice dripped with contempt.

“Yes, yes, you were right.  She’s dead, and I’m alive and I…I know I shouldn’t be.  I should’ve been the one to die.  I should never have tried to save my clan.  There, I’ve said it.  Does it make you happy, then?  Is it what you wanted to hear?”  Merrill snapped back, tears threatening to spill from her large, expressive eyes.  Fenris raised a pointed finger accusingly, as if to say something in response, but Hawke intervened.  She smiled wanly at her friends and raised her hands, placating. 

“Please.  This is what we just left behind.  We’re all tired and we’ve all seen too much.  I’m asking you to let it go, for my sake if not your own.”  Merrill nodded silently and kept walking.  Fenris had the grace to nod at Hawke, ashamed of his outburst.  She moved closer to him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.  He leaned into her touch and she could _feel_ the energy humming through him, smelled the blood and sweat and ichor but underneath it all there was still the faint scent of spices that seemed to linger on his skin.  Hawke felt a sort of vertigo that had _nothing_ to do with magic or abominations or Templars.  It hit her square in the gut and sent shockwaves up through her chest and all the way to her feet.  She let go of him, feeling more drained than ever. 

Varric’s voice distracted her.  The dwarf was comforting Merrill.  “Don’t worry, Daisy.  You’re much too pretty to ever become something like that.”  _Like Orsino._

Orsino.  Hawke shuddered reflexively, thinking back to the former First Enchanter’s last moments as a man.  There was the rage and revulsion she felt when Orsino revealed his knowledge of necromancy, his connection to the monster who’d murdered her mother.  And then he was gone, transformed into a gruesome mass of twisted, writhing flesh.  When it was all over, necessity dictated that she take the staff from his corpse.

Hawke stopped and stared at the staff.  Without preamble, she chanted an incantation, flaring her stone armor.  With magic fueling her speed and strength, she took Orsino’s staff and brought it down across her armored knee, snapping it half.  There was a flash of lyrium sparks and smoke as the staff splintered into fragments.  Hawke tossed the two halves onto the ground in disgust and murmured to herself, conjuring up flames to burn the shattered weapon. 

When it was over, she stared into the fire.  Her breathing was rapid and shallow.  She had scarcely any mana left, now.  Aware that her companions were staring at her, she gestured vaguely back up the Gallows stairs.  Her voice sounded dull and far away, her tongue felt somehow too large for her mouth.  And why was she suddenly so hot?  The flames weren’t so intense.

“I can’t carry that thing with me.  It feels…wrong.” She said simply.  The earth had started to move beneath her feet.

“Indeed, better for it to be destroyed.  Who knows what manner of dark magic with which Orsino enchanted it?” Sebastian offered.  “Are you all right, Hawke?  You don’t look like yourself.”

“I’m…I’m fine.  I just need to get out of this place.”  Hawke swallowed thickly.  She passed a hand across her eyes, trying to clear her head.  She fought a losing battle and swayed unsteadily.  She took a step, felt her foot dragging. 

“Hawke, are you sure you don’t want to rest for a bit?  You look a bit pale and— _Hawke!”_ Aveline was speaking when Hawke stumbled, falling down the stairs.

She didn’t fall far.  She was aware of her knees hitting the ground, of pitching forward at a dizzying speed, and then strong arms were cradling her, lowering her gently to the ground.  A gauntleted hand found hers, squeezing tightly.  Hawke could barely make out Fenris’ distressed expression through the haze that dominated her field of vision.  The world was going dark.  She was shaking uncontrollably, hot and cold all over.

“Hawke!  Can you hear me?  Get up, Hawke.  _Hawke!”_ His voice broke, choked with emotion.  There was shouting, scrambling sounds and the clanking of armor.

“Let me see her, Fenris.  Is she injured anywhere?  We have to get her to the ship, carefully now.”  Aveline’s strong voice sounded muffled and faint, now.

“I’m fine…” she tried to say, but the words wouldn’t come.

“Hang in there, Hawke.  We’re going to get you out of here.  You’re going to be fine." 

Hawke struggled weakly against his iron grip on her hand, managing a frail smile.  He let go, and she reached out, touched his face.  She felt him press his lips against her wrist and then the darkness overtook her and she knew no more.






	2. Chapter 2

Aveline swore under her breath.  The moment Hawke fell, she’d been galvanized into action.  The rest of her companions stood panic-stricken or were frantically gathering about, smothering the woman.  Fenris sat motionless, still cradling Hawke, his lips pressed against her wrist.  

“Her heart beats.” He said, but his voice was hollow, his eyes unfocused.

Aveline knelt over the Champion’s body and began checking for injuries.  They all bore marks of the battle on their persons.  Aveline removed her gauntlets and brushed the woman’s unruly black hair out of her eyes and was shocked by what she felt.

“Maker’s Breath, she’s burning up.”  She turned to the others, assessing them.  Long years of training had kicked in; her father’s lessons in the ways of chevalier, her time as a soldier, the battle at Ostagar, the drills here in Kirkwall—all of it had prepared her for a moment when no one else would know what to do.  She started barking orders.

“What are you lot standing there like dullards for?  Hawke needs you.  Isabela, take my husband to the ship, get it ready to sail.  Varric, you’d better go, too.  They could use your help.  Sebastian, you go with Fenris to the ship, and don’t leave him alone.”  She eyed the elf, watching the play of emotion over his face.  Grief, fear, and rage all left their mark on his features.  She didn’t trust his state of mind right now.

“She’s going to be all right, Fenris.  I promise: I won’t let anything happen to her.”  She reassured him carefully.  Fenris said nothing, but allowed Sebastian to pull him away.  There was an awful tension in his body, his hands clenched and unclenched in fists.  Aveline turned to Merrill.  The elven mage had one arm crossed over her chest, and was anxiously biting the back of her knuckles.

“Merrill, you’re staying with me.  I’m going to need your help.”

Once the others were out of earshot, Aveline carefully unbuckled the Champion’s armor, examining each piece for puncture marks or blood before setting it down.  Merrill hurried to her side and knelt down, ripping a piece of fabric from the hem of her robes.  She emptied a small flask of water over it and gently mopped Hawke’s brows. 

“I don’t understand it, Aveline.  She’s not injured, and she’s burning up.  She was fine just a few minutes ago.  What’s happening?”

Aveline was operating on a hunch, and unfastened a small satchel at Hawke’s side.  She dumped the contents on the stone floor and cursed.

“Shit.  I was hoping I was wrong.  It’s a lyrium overdose.  Look at these.” She held up a small vial. “Lyrium potions, all of them.  She was going through everything she had during the battle.”  Merrill’s eyes went wide in disbelief.

“I-I knew she was working a lot of magic back there, but…she’s Hawke.  She’s always like that, and nothing’s ever happened before.”  Aveline shrugged grimly.

“She’s never been without Anders to back her up.  He was the healer, and now he’s...well, he’s gone.  Someone had to pick up the slack.  Hawke took it on herself to keep us all standing.  _Shit._ ”  Aveline wiped blood from her shield and held it close to Hawke’s face.  The shining metal dulled over with a mist from her breathing, and Aveline looked relieved for a moment.

“Good, strong breathing.  That’s my girl.”  She turned aside, speaking more to herself than to Merrill, her voice a murmur, as if trying to remember.

“Wesley told me about lyrium overdoses.  It happened, time to time, among the Templars.  He said the men would shake uncontrollably, stricken by fever.  They would slip into unconsciousness, sometimes crying out in pain.”  She swallowed heavily.  “Many of them died within hours, and those that didn’t, they often killed, out of fear that so much lyrium might make them cross into the Fade while still conscious.  I don’t know if that could happen to a Templar, but to a mage…” 

Merrill shook her head.  “She could be trapped in the Beyond now, and we wouldn’t know.” 

“First thing’s first, then.  We have to get this fever under control.  We’ll figure out the rest as we go along.” 

“Mythal, lend her your strength now.”  Merrill stroked Hawke’s hair.  Her expression was as serious as any look Keeper Marethari had once given her.

“Oy you two, we’re ready to go.”  Isabela jogged over from the ship, Donnic close behind her.  The two of them carried a makeshift stretcher, made of oars and sailcloth lashed together.  “We can carry Hawke to the ship on this.  Varric has our Tevinter friend holed up in one of the cabins.  The choir boy is clearing out the Captain’s—excuse me, _my_ quarters.  Let’s get out of this pisshole.”  The pirate barely paused for breath.  Isabela and Donnic set the stretcher down next to Hawke.  Aveline motioned for her husband.  Together, they carefully lifted Hawke onto the sailcloth.  Each of them took one end of the stretcher in hand.  Donnic nodded once.

“All right, lift.” And they were off, carrying Hawke to the _Siren’s Call II_.  Merrill started gathering Hawke’s belongings together.  Isabela bent down to help her and saw that she was crying.

“Hush, Kitten.  Don’t worry.” Isabela said soothingly.  “Hawke will be just fine.  The Arishok couldn’t kill her and she’s wearing the gizzard of a High Dragon around her neck.  You’ll see.  She’ll be right as rain soon enough and scolding you for being a silly goose and worrying so much.”  The pirate hugged Merrill and patted her back.  She did not let the elf see the sadness in her eyes as she picked up Hawke’s chestplate.

“There you go, no more tears.  Let’s get Hawke’s things and get out of this place.  It’s creepy.” 

“Hold the door open, steady, all right.  Here, lay her out on the bed now, nice and easy.  Right, I’m going to need clean linens and fresh water.  We need to break this fever.”  Aveline wiped sweat from her brow.  She knew how to take command of a situation, and she’d faced dire odds many times before.  This was different.  This was Hawke. 

She turned to face her companions, her friends.  They stood expectantly, waiting for an answer.  Fenris lurked just inside the doorway, his eyes locked on the Champion.  Donnic was with him.  Aveline was glad for that. The elf liked and respected her husband and his presence seemed to have a calming effect on Fenris.  Aveline swallowed around a lump in her throat, clearing her head of hopeless thoughts.  When she spoke, her voice was careful and matter-of-fact, betraying little emotion.

“Hawke isn’t injured.  It’s a lyrium overdose.”  Here, Varric shook his head and ran a hand across his brow.  Aveline continued, “We need to empty her stomach as quickly as possible, before it gets worse.” 

Merrill jumped up.  She rummaged through a small pouch and pulled out a handful of withered leaves.  “I can help.  My people use these leaves to cleanse a wound of poison, but if you swallow them, or boil them and drink their essence, you’ll be sick.” 

Aveline nodded.  “Go to the galley and heat some water, then.”  She turned to Isabela.

“Is there a large wash basin in this cabin?”  Isabela looked offended.

“I _already_ bathed, but thank you for that, you smell lovely too.”  Aveline suppressed an urge to throttle the woman.  Isabela considered Hawke to be her truest friend, the only person on whom she could rely.  She was coping the only way she knew how; by hiding her true feelings with bravado and jokes.

 _Are we so truly different?_ Aveline thought to herself.  _Aren’t I putting on a mask, as well?_   _We bury our feelings until it’s safe to face them_. 

Out loud, she said, “Believe me, slattern, there is no amount of water in the Waking Sea that could wash _that_ smell off your hide.  But we need it for Hawke.”  Aveline turned to the Champion.  Her condition had not improved; she was still unconscious, and she had started shaking and twitching restlessly.  Her skin was pale except for her cheeks, which were flushed with fever. 

“We need to shock her awake so she’ll drink.  She’ll only choke if we try it now.”  Varric stepped further into the room, arms akimbo.




“You uh, really think this will work, Aveline?” 

She regarded the dwarf a moment, her brows knit in concentration.  “Maker, I hope so.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought of adding a note at the start of the first chapter, but then I didn't. If you've made it this far, I hope you've liked it - this has been a work in progress for the better part of a year and recently I picked it back up again and made some edits, and now I'm posting it. I should be updating pretty frequently for awhile - there's quite a bit more. Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

“It’s ready, Aveline!  What do you need me to do?”  Merrill hurried in, gingerly holding a tin mug filled with steaming liquid.  Aveline rolled up her shirtsleeves.  She had long since removed her armor, needing a freedom of movement the plate did not allow.  She pointed at the wash basin.

“I need you to make this cold.  As cold as you can manage without it freezing over.” 

Merrill whispered a cadence in what Aveline presumed was Elven.  She leaned over the water and exhaled, sending ripples across the quiet surface.  A rime of frost appeared at the edges of the tub. 

“Good.  Someone help me, carefully now.”  Aveline put Hawke’s arm over her shoulder, wrapping one arm around the woman’s waist.  She paused when Fenris stepped up and hooked his hands under Hawke’s knees.  He had discarded his gauntlets, and his touch was respectful, almost reverent against her skin.

“Perhaps you should let Sebastian, Fenris.  I’m…not sure you want to be here for this.”  She offered kindly.  The fire returned to his eyes. “I will not abandon Hawke.” He said through gritted teeth.   




“Perhaps _we_ should be the ones to leave, actually.  I’m sure Isabela could use a hand on deck.  There is nothing more we can do here, and it’s best we put ourselves to good use for Hawke’s sake.” Sebastian gestured with his head towards the door.  Donnic and Varric took the hint and followed him down the hall.  The door swung shut.

“All right, Fenris.  Ready?  And…lift!”

The moment Hawke’s body hit the frigid water, her eyes snapped open.  The basin was long, meant for soaking in, and was full to overflowing.  The water lapped at her breast.  She cried out, gasping for air.  Aveline seized the mug of bitter tea from Merrill and cradled Hawke’s head.

“Cold, _so cold…_ ”  She managed to gasp.  Her eyes were glassy and unfocused, like one in a trance.

“Hawke, I know, I know it hurts.  Stay with me, Hawke.  You’ve had too much lyrium, and I need you to drink this, as much as you can, as quickly as you can.”

Hawke’s eyelids flickered, and she opened her mouth.  Aveline held the cup to her lips, and Hawke took a generous mouthful.  She made a face at the acerbic flavor, and coughed, but fought gamely on and managed to down most of the mug’s contents.  She slumped back down into the frigid water, clawing at the sides of the tub.

“Right, let’s get her out.”  They hoisted Hawke back onto the bed, wet and shivering.  Fenris immediately took an old blanket and began drying her off.  He kissed her damp hair tenderly.

“It should only take a moment.” Merrill said softly, placing a bucket down by the bed.  Her words seemed almost a cue, and Hawke convulsed once before retching.  Merrill looked away uncomfortably, but Aveline appeared unmoved, as if made of stone.  She held the bucket as Hawke emptied her stomach of poisonous lyrium.  Fenris held back her hair and washed her face with a damp cloth.  His face was focused, intent on the task at hand.  When it was all over with, the three of them stood silent.  Hawke twisted fitfully on the bed.

“She can’t wear those wet things.  Her underclothes are soaked!”   Merrill shivered in sympathy, thinking about the cold.  Aveline pursed her lips.  She rummaged through an old chest of drawers and pulled out a thin linen tunic, worn but reasonably clean.




“Well, on Hawke it might actually look decent.” She said at last.  “And it’s not like we have a lot of options right now.” 

She brought the tunic over and went to untie the laces of Hawke’s undershirt.  Fenris raised a hand to forestall her.  He skillfully unlaced her smallclothes and eased her out of them.  This was not the act of a lover—his motions were automatic, mechanical, and he carefully avoided looking at her exposed body, as might a slave.  He raised her arms as Aveline pulled the tunic down over her head.  It wasn’t much, but at least the clothes were warm and dry. 

“Now what, Aveline?  You speak of lyrium overdose as one familiar with the topic.  I know you well enough to know you haven’t told us everything.  Tell me what it is you’ve been holding back.”  Fenris planted himself square in front of her, boldly meeting her eyes. 

“I don’t know much, Fenris.  My late husband, Wesley, told me of lyrium overdoses in Templars.  And the only reason he ever spoke of it at all was that a good friend of his in the Order died from it.  It’s rare.” 

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “What else aren’t you saying?”

Aveline paced the room under the elf’s intense gaze.

“Most people who are exposed to lyrium simply wind up addled from it, or they bleed out and die on the spot.  It’s toxic, everyone knows that.  Hawke can’t even touch unprocessed lyrium because she’s a mage.”  Aveline took a breath.  “Mana potions _aren’t_ raw lyrium, but they’re still made from the waters of the Fade.  The Chantry mandates that Templars kill anyone in a lyrium coma, mage or Templar, for fear that they might become abominations.  That’s what this is.  Hawke is probably trapped somewhere in the Fade and cannot get out.”

Fenris looked as if he’d been gutted.

“Then what was all this for?  Why were we wasting time worrying about fever and lyrium when Hawke is in the Fade?”  He snarled accusingly, his lyrium tattoos flashing blue with his anger.  Aveline whipped back to face him, the mask of control slipping from her face.

“Because I care for her too, Fenris!”  She shouted.  “Don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re the only one who cares for Hawke.  I know what it means to love someone and lose them.  I’m not going to lose Hawke, too.  Not after Bethany, and Wesley, and Carver and Leandra.  _I will not lose Hawke.”_

Aveline took a few deep breaths, visibly shaken by her own outburst.  She regained her composure swiftly.

_“_ Merrill and I have kept more lyrium from ending up in her blood, which could have stopped her heart.  You can thank us when you’re thinking more clearly, but for now I suggest you control yourself.”  Fenris held his ground for a moment, but finally his shoulders slumped in weary acknowledgement.

“I…apologize, Aveline.  I should not have questioned you on this.” 

“It’s all right.  You needn’t thank me, either.  I haven’t saved her yet.  Maker knows I’ve no idea what else to do.”

“There is one thing we can do.” Merrill interjected, her words tumbling over themselves. “I-I could try to send someone into the Beyond to find Hawke.  I’d need lyrium, though.  And I don’t know if it would work.  The Keeper used this spell to save that half-blood boy, Feynriel, but I’m not the Keeper and I don’t think I could send more than one person—”

“Then let it be me.” Fenris said.  “I will find her.” 


	4. Chapter 4

“You want to do _what?!_ Elf, need I remind you that the last time you entered the Fade, a Pride demon got into your head and Hawke and I had to fight the both of you ourselves?”  Varric made a sweeping gesture.  The group of companions stood in the main hold of the ship, discussing the plan.  The night waned, and the ship still had not left Kirkwall’s harbor.

“My point is, we won’t be there to stop you from doing something stupid.” The dwarf finished.

“Well, _I_ certainly enjoyed my time strolling about in Dream-Land.  Never did get that ship I was promised though, hmm.  Of course, I have a ship now, so I don’t want anything else.  Except maybe a hat.  A really, really big hat.”  Isabela leaned against a wooden support, musing to herself.  Varric snorted.

“Not. Helping.” He muttered in her direction.

“This is _serious_ , Isabela.  Do not make light of temptation.  It has only ever been a downfall for mankind.”  Sebastian pleaded.  The pirate cocked her head and put a hand on her hip.

“Then why don’t you go down, Se-bas-ti-an?” She retorted, drawing out every syllable of his name. She gave him a lascivious wink.  Sebastian hesitated, as if searching for the words he should say rather than the ones he wished.

“I…was tempted, as well.  The Desire demon that enslaved Lady Harriman…I barely slept for weeks afterward.  Part of me wanted to listen—part me _did_ listen to that monster.  But Hawke wouldn’t have any of it.  I owe her for that, and so much more.  But I cannot go into the Fade.”  He bowed his head, ashamed. “I’m not strong enough for her.”

Varric sighed heavily.  “I almost wish Hawke had spared blondie.  That spirit of Justice was absolutely incorruptible in the Fade.”  Fenris rounded on the dwarf.

“Do not speak of that abomination to me.  This is _his_ fault.  All that has befallen us tonight is that _mage’s_ doing.”  He spat, his voice full of venom.  Varric raised his hands, palms outward in a gesture of peace.

“I agree.” Sebastian added.  “Anders forced this on all of us.  How many paid with their lives for his crimes?  Even Hawke has not escaped unscathed.”  

Aveline rubbed her temples wearily.  Donnic wrapped a reassuring arm around her waist and squeezed.  He remained silent, offering only simple gestures of support to buoy her through this ordeal.  Aveline was tremendously grateful for his presence now.  Even that was something she owed to Hawke.

“This is getting us nowhere.” She interrupted.  “I’ve never been to the Fade; I’m not about to walk blindly into danger.  It’s foolish and won’t help matters.  Sebastian is unwilling given his past experience with a demon; it’s understandable, and better he know his own weakness than let pride blind him to the risks.  Merrill cannot go as she will be performing the ritual.  That leaves only the three of you—or two of you, rather.  I’m sure we all agree Isabela should not return to the Fade any time soon.” 

Silence fell as Varric and Fenris regarded one another.  The dwarf still appeared unconvinced.  He liked the elf, they had always enjoyed a friendly rivalry, but ever since the Deep Roads, Varric had felt responsible for Hawke.  He was unwilling to let that responsibility drop now.  Fenris took a step forward.

“Hawke is more important to me than my own life.  I would not trade her well-being for anything a demon could offer.  She is…”  He looked away.  It was obviously difficult for him to speak so frankly about his feelings for the Champion.  “Before the battle, Hawke and I…I asked her to promise me she would not die.  She wouldn’t promise, unless I did the same.  I swore then that nothing would keep me from her.  ”  He took a long, shuddering breath, steadying himself against a table.  He gripped it so hard his knuckles turned white.  His voice grew harsh.

“I remember only too well what happened in the Fade all those years ago.  I even told Hawke that I hoped we would never have to face anything similar, but clearly, we are well past such wishes now.” Fenris turned around, facing the group. 

“She freed me.  I could not have killed Danarius without her help.  I owe it to her to do this.  I made a promise, and so did she.  I intend to see to it that both our oaths are kept.”  Varric shifted his weight, his decision made.

“Humph.  To be honest, I wasn’t really looking forward to going back there.  All this weird magic shit—you elves and humans can keep it.  I’ve still got the creeps from that sword the Knight-Commander made from the lyrium idol.”  Fenris looked grateful.

“Thank you, my friend.”  He said earnestly.

“There’s still one problem, though.  Where are we going to get the lyrium for this little venture?  The Templars probably won’t welcome us back through their gates anytime soon, and if I know the Merchant’s Guild, they have every mercenary and cutthroat in the city guarding their storehouses from Carta and Coterie looters.”

“I can answer that!” Merrill piped in, leading a young dwarf with sandy blond hair and a friendly, if somewhat vacant, expression.

“Allo.” Said Sandal pleasantly.  Varric looked nonplussed.

“Andraste’s ass, how did he get here?  For that matter, how did he even get to the Gallows?  Nevermind.  I’m not sure I want to know.”

“What did you bring with you, Sandal?” She asked.  The dwarf smiled widely.

“Enchantment!”  He tugged at a small pouch tucked into his belt.  Merrill quickly grabbed it and brandished it above her head.

“He brought all of his runeworking supplies, including lyrium.” Fenris looked skeptical.  He fingered the leather pouch, narrowing his eyes.

“There’s not much there.  Are you sure you’ll be able to work the spell with so little lyrium?”  Merrill understood his meaning immediately.

“I would _never_ use blood magic for this.”  She said, aghast.  “It would drain an entire person’s life force.  It would kill them.  No, this will have to be enough, there’s no other lyrium on the ship and we don’t have time to get more.”

“I’m afraid she’s right, Fenris.  Word will soon reach the Templars in Ostwick and Starkhaven, if it hasn’t already.  While Merrill performs the ritual, Donnic and I will lead a small party back into Kirkwall to gather some supplies, as well as bring Bodahn, Orana and the mabari from Hawke’s estate.  Then we’re setting sail and we aren’t stopping until we reach the northern waters.”  Aveline looked around.  “If anyone has something that absolutely needs saving, make a list right now.

The group dispersed.  Fenris strode purposefully back to the Captain’s quarters, where Hawke still lay unconscious.  She occasionally tossed and turned and murmured sounds of distress.  He could hardly bear to look at her, but try as he might, he could not turn away.  He stroked her cheek fondly, a mixture of love and pain mingling in his eyes.  He heard Aveline enter behind him.  He did not turn around.

“There is…something I want from the mansion in Hightown.  I have few possessions, but there is one I would not leave behind.  There is a book by Shartan, by the bed in the main chamber.  It was a gift.”

“I’ll get it for you.”

“Fenris, I thought…before you undergo this ritual.  Well, I would be honored if you would pray with me.”  Sebastian said sincerely.  For years, Fenris had struggled with faith, with the concept of a loving Maker who did nothing to end the plight of slaves like himself in Tevinter.  He had owned his freedom and resented the idea that he should share credit for his escape with an absent deity, up until the day Hawke took him into the Fade and a demon had tempted him as easily as any magister.  With his own weakness revealed, Fenris began to put more stock in what Sebastian said.  It was still a difficult road with few answers, but better than none at all.

“If ever the Maker should choose to turn His gaze upon me, I hope that moment is now.” Fenris replied, and took a knee, clasping his hands.  Sebastian stood over him and held out his hand, his head bowed.

He began with an intonation, "Blessed art thou who exist in the sight of the Maker.  Blessed art thou who seek his forgiveness.   Blessed art thou who seek his return.  Blessed is the Prophetess, His daughter, sacrificed to the Holy Flame.  May the Chant of Light reach the Maker’s ears, and tell Him of our contrition.  May the Maker’s gaze turn then upon you, Fenris, and grant you light in darkness, for all who tread without His blessing are lost.  So let it be.”

 

Fenris rose and saw Aveline had bowed her head in respectful silence.  Merrill was busy fiddling with the lyrium, preparing for the ritual.

“Isn’t that a prayer normally spoken by priestesses?” He smirked.

“I believe that, under the circumstances, the Maker will understand.” Sebastian replied, a smile playing at his lips.

“I’m afraid it might have all been for nothing.” Merrill said.  The faint glow of lyrium lit her features, wisps of glowing mist trailing from her fingers.  Her voice broke and tears were in her eyes.  “There isn’t enough lyrium after all.  I…I can’t perform the ritual.  I can’t save her.  I don’t know what else to do!”

Fenris had maintained his composure out of a belief that they might find a way to save Hawke.  He had listened to Aveline out of respect and admiration for her abilities as a leader, and while he disliked Merrill and detested her magic, he was willing to undergo this ritual to save Hawke.  Now, to have his hopes dashed… He looked at the woman he loved, lying prone as though she were already lost to this world.  Lost to him. 

Fenris cursed bitterly in Tevinter, his lyrium tattoos flashing as he sent a pulse of energy at a nearby table, splintering it instantly.  Aveline and Sebastian jumped back, but Merrill’s eyes went wide, her mouth ajar.

“Oh Mythal, _thank you!_ ”  She cried, practically joyful.  “I could kiss you, if, you know, you didn’t hate mages so much and you weren’t so cranky and you weren’t with Hawke.  I’m rambling, haven’t done that in a long time, sorry.”   Fenris stopped, his rage somewhat dissipated by her outburst.

“What are you blathering about, witch?” His markings flashed again, menacingly. Merrill’s brows furrowed.

“You know, one day you’re going to have to stop doing that.  But not today.  Your vallaslin are made with _lyrium.”_ She explained.  Fenris simply looked at her.

“I know what they are.  Get to the point.”  Merrill looked frustrated.

“Don’t be an ass.”  She seemed surprised by her own forcefulness, but continued, “Lyrium is the essence of the Beyond, and those markings give you some of its power.  I think—I think that when you phase like that, it brings you _closer_ to the Beyond, somehow.  Almost as if you’re in between worlds.”  Fenris raised his eyebrows, comprehension dawning on him.

“Are you saying…?” 

Merrill nodded emphatically.  “Phase yourself completely, and I’ll know right away.”  He sent out another burst of energy, unleashing the full power of his lyrium markings.  Merrill reached out with a thread of magic, and as it connected the blast almost knocked them both off their feet.

“I can do it.” She said, smiling in weary triumph.  Fenris approached Hawke’s bed.  He let the power go out, felt the strange silence in his skin as the markings quieted.   

“One moment.”  He leaned over and whispered something in the Champion’s ear, then kissed her cheek and each of her eyelids.  Then, he eased himself onto the berth next to her, lying flat on his back.  He took a deep breath.

“If we do not wake up…”  Fenris glanced up at Aveline.  The guard captain nodded her understanding.

“You’ll find her, bring her back to us.” She said instead.

Fenris closed his eyes and focused on the lyrium tattoos that marked him, body and soul.  For years he had hated these markings, detested the very sight of them.  He had cursed them and the magic inflicted on his body and soul.  And now, they were the only thing enabling him to save the woman he loved.  Perhaps the Maker had seen him after all. 

He furrowed his brows and let the power surge through him, suffusing his whole being.  Merrill began chanting, softly at first but quickly rising in volume.  He opened his eyes, looking at Hawke’s face; he had memorized the curve of her cheek, the proud, straight nose across which she often painted a red slash, and her generous mouth, so quick to offer a smile.  He reached down and fingered the red scarf she’d given him so many years ago.  He had never taken it off; wearing his heart on his sleeve, as Varric had teased on more than one occasion.   

“I promise.” He whispered, and waited.  Merrill’s incantation reached a peak.  Tendrils of energy cast forth from her fingertips, and Fenris felt the searing pain of the lyrium in his flesh reacting to her magic, pulsing and burning with magical energy.  He clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut.  The pain was immense, but nothing compared to the ritual that had given him the markings to begin with.  He forced himself to breath, sighing in relief as a weightless feeling settled in his gut.  He took one last look at the woman he loved, and slipped into unconsciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

Merrill’s knees buckled, and she might have hit the floor were it not for Sebastian’s quick reflexes.  He scooped the mage into his arms before she fell.  Merrill rubbed her head, snapping out of her daze.  She seemed to have recovered, and she steadied herself against his shoulders.

“Oh my, that was…different.  Thank you for that.  I mean, for catching me.”  He smiled automatically.

“You’re welcome.” Merrill had to look almost straight up to meet his eyes.  As it was, his lips were just inches away, and she blushed.  Sebastian realized his proximity and stepped backward suddenly.

“I mean, a gentleman does not stand idly by while a lady is in need of assistance.”  His ears were red.  “I think I’ll go up on deck and get some air, tell the others what’s happened.  It’s been a very long night.”  He turned and left the room, passing Isabela on his way.  The sultry captain sauntered in and glanced about, taking everything in.  Fenris was now lying next to Hawke on the bed, apparently unconscious. Aveline leaned against the wall, wiping sweat from her brow, and Merrill stood flushed with emotion in the center of the room.

“Seems like I missed quite the party.” She commented dryly.  She grabbed a chair and turned it around, straddling it and resting her arms on the back.

“So, what, we just wait it out for them both to come to?”  She continued after a moment.  Aveline picked up her breastplate and began fastening it on.

“Dawn will be here before long.  I will take a small group back into Kirkwall to gather up supplies and belongings.  The rest will stay here to guard the ship until we return, and then we are getting out of this city.” She said, buckling her greaves.  Isabela sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes.

“First it was, “We have to get out of here now, Isabela” and now it’s “Babysit the star-crossed dreamers, Isabela”.  I don’t suppose it’s too much to ask that you bring back some good ale with you, is it?  All I have is the rotgut from the Hanged Man.  Fenris always has a bottle of something good in his estate. Or I suppose you could raid Hawke’s wine cellar, she’s always had fine taste in spirits.” 

“You don’t _have_ to stay onboard if you don’t want to—” Aveline began impatiently.

“No. I’ll stay.  I want to stay.” Isabela cut her off sharply.  The Guard Captain gave her a strange look.

“I mean,” Isabela continued, suddenly self-conscious, “what sort of Captain just leaves her ship for a lousy bottle of booze?”   The two women regarded each other.  Isabela smiled slyly, but her eyes were full.  An imperceptible smile graced Aveline’s mouth.  She inclined her head towards the pirate.

“Very well, _Captain_.  I’ll take my husband, Varric and Sebastian.  Merrill should stay here, in case…well, she should stay here.”

“Mind you bring back the ale, now!” Isabela called out as Aveline shouldered her shield and sword and marched down the hall.  Merrill wandered out of the room, murmuring something about being hungry.  Isabela dragged her chair closer to the bedside.  She looked at Hawke; the Champion was still unconscious, but every now and then she would shudder or shake, and her hair was plastered to her scalp with sweat or water.  Isabela wiped her eyes and swore, then linked her fingers with Hawke’s.

Fenris opened his eyes on a grey, barren landscape bathed in a paltry light.  He frowned in displeasure; when they’d gone into the Fade for the half-blooded boy, Feynriel, they entered a place shaped to resemble the Gallows.  It was something personal to the lad, and so the demons hunting him had crafted an illusion to lure him in.  This place was nothing like it; an empty countryside, devoid of life, menacing.

A guttural, inhuman growl sounded from behind the swell of a small hill and Fenris was moving.  He unsheathed his sword and flared his lyrium just as a small group of hurlocks crested the hill, weapons raised.  He swung the sword of mercy in a vicious arc, relieving the first hurlock’s body of its head.  Thick black blood spattered across the ground, dripping from his blade.  The second hurlock just dodged the first blow of his sword.  It bore down upon him, broken teeth bared in a snarl.  Fenris moved in unexpectedly, striking with the pommel of his sword.  Ichor gushed from the hole in the creature’s face and it fell to the ground with a gurgle.

The third was taller than the others and parried his next two attacks. The alpha hurlock grunted in a disturbing parody of a laugh, and Fenris spat in its face.  He flared lyrium, sending out dark magical energy that ripped through the hurlock.  It staggered towards him, roaring in defiance.  Fenris raised his sword just in time to block the killing blow aimed at his neck.  The impact jarred him, and he leaped backwards out of reach.  Gathering himself, Fenris whipped his sword back around and sent it right through the creature’s chest, twisting the blade viciously before pulling it free.  The darkspawn collapsed.  Fenris wiped the black blood from his blade contemptuously.  He sheathed his weapon and stepped over the pile of corpses, walking through an empty field.  A figure there attracted his attention, and he approached cautiously.  It resembled a woman, gazing out into nothing.  Fenris narrowed his eyes; the woman was but a mere shade, as ephemeral as this wasteland he found himself wandering.  She heard his approach long before he was within striking distance and turned to greet him.

“Welcome to the Fade.” 

“What are you?” He demanded without preamble.

“I am a spirit of the Fade; you may call me Hope.  Did you come for her?  Tell me you have come for the Champion.  Her need is great.”  Fenris shook his head.

“I will not answer any questions of yours until you tell me your interest in Hawke.” His voice betrayed the rage and anxiety he felt.  Hope did not approach him further.

“I have known her for many, many years.  I encountered her in the Fade, and have followed her ever since.” The spirit offered no further explanation.  Fenris did nothing, but every muscle in his body was tensed, waiting.

“What is it you want from Hawke?  Why have you followed her, and why is she trapped here now?”

Hope faced him again and drew itself up.  Its eyes flashed as it spoke.

“I did not trap her.  Despair trapped her.” 

“What is Despair?”  Fenris took an uneasy step closer to the spirit.  It looked at him, _through_ him, but said nothing.  He scowled.

“Very well then, _spirit,”_ he spat, turning his back on the spirit of Hope, “I will find Hawke myself and be gone from this nightmarish place.”

“You have known little of hope in your life, and much of despair.” Hope said sadly, before he had taken two steps.  Fenris looked back over his shoulder.

“In my experience, hope often gives way to despair.”  The spirit seemed somehow affected by his words, and beckoned him to come back.

“You speak truer words than you know.  I will tell you what has happened here if you swear to slay Despair and end this nightmare.” Fenris hesitated; he was loath to trust any denizen of the Fade, yet he sensed there was no other way.

“Tell me, then.”

“It is not something that can be told.  It must be shown.”  Quicker than he could react, the spirit reached out and grabbed his wrist.  There was a blinding light and Fenris felt the world around him shift.  He hit the ground with a _thud_ and rose to his feet slowly.  The spirit was nowhere to be seen.  A young woman was wandering the Fade before him.  She wore a much-mended set of robes and her thick black hair was cut short, hanging around her face in careless strands.  It was Hawke.

“She cannot hear you.  She is not your Champion yet.”  Hope appeared beside him, and he drew his sword automatically.  He did not lower it.

“I tire of your games, spirit.  You will tell me why you create this illusion and then I will find Hawke myself.”  Fenris flashed his lyrium markings threateningly, feeling the energy humming, resonating with the Fade around him.

“It is not an illusion.  It is a memory, many years old.  Watch.”  Hope explained, pointing at the scene before him.  Fenris did as he was bid and saw that it was indeed a much younger version of the woman he loved.  She appeared no older than 16, and she paced restlessly through a small clearing, talking to herself. 

“Send me into the Fade, and for what?  ‘You have to be Harrowed, Marian.  All mages must undergo the Harrowing and face a spirit’, well, I’ve been here for hours, thank you, and I haven’t seen any bloody spirits other than the talking mouse, and Maker knows I’m not taking advice from a _mouse_.”

Fenris watched in fascination as the young Hawke threw down her staff and sat on a rock.  She buried her face in her hands, rubbing her forehead wearily.

“Sodding magic.  Sodding Fade.  Sodding Harrowing.”  She muttered to herself and fell silent.  She remained there for some time, until a shadowy figure strolled into the clearing.  It had the appearance of a man, with the same unruly black hair as Hawke and the same broad smile, but the eyes were empty.  Fenris stared intently at the man.  Hope sensed his unrest and held up a hand to forestall him.

“This is mere shadow, a memory of deeds past.  You cannot change what happened here.”

 Malcolm Hawke approached the young Marian Hawke and opened his arms wide.

“My darling little Marian, I’ve found you at last.”  Hawke looked up at once, surprise evident on her features.

“Father..?  What are you…why are you here?  I thought the Mages’ Collective would not let you enter the Fade during my Harrowing.”  The father raced to his daughter and hugged her.

“We spoke for some time after you were sent into the Fade.  It was finally agreed that these Harrowings should stop.  It is a terrible remnant of the Circle and we should not bow to the Chantry’s rules while we live free.” Hawke raised one eyebrow and made a wry smile, an expression Fenris knew well.

“Is that so?  Well, I wish they could have decided that before I spent the last few hours wandering about this grey fog.” 

Fenris smirked despite himself, saying, “Truly, this is Hawke.”  Hope looked at him, but said nothing.

Malcolm Hawke gently chucked Hawke under the chin and smiled apologetically.

“I’m so sorry, Marian.  I never should have forced this on you.  When you’re ready, we can leave the Fade, together.”  Hawke gave the man’s arm a squeeze before she disengaged from his embrace.  She bent down and picked up her staff.

“I still haven’t found a spirit, Father.  I don’t like to feel as if I’m quitting, and now that you’re here with me, I’m sure we can face one together.”  She shrugged amicably.  “Maybe it isn’t a true Harrowing, but I imagine with you here, I’ll be able to face whatever the Fade holds in store.”

Malcolm Hawke smiled at his daughter, causing Fenris to shudder instinctively.  There was something predatory, something unclean about this man.  He could not see it, but he felt it in his very core.

“Why would you want to stay in this place when you don’t have to?” He asked.  His words seemed kind, but there was a hidden edge to them.  “We can go home now, to your mother and Bethany and Carver.  Surely you would rather be safe and sound in your bed than in the Fade.”  Hawke bit her lower lip.

“But didn’t you say that the Harrowing is important?” 

Malcolm Hawke scratched the back of his neck.  His brows were furrowed, as if with concern.

“I did, but…the Circle taught me what it meant to be a mage.  I left the Circle, and I have tried to teach you what it _should_ mean to be a mage.  I should have realized sooner that it means not throwing my darling daughter to the wind to see if she can fly.”  The younger Hawke nodded a little, but turned to stare out across the horizon, empty but for a few twisting mountains, nearly indistinguishable from the sky.

“It just doesn’t feel right, somehow.” She said at last.  “What if something happens and I need to go into the Fade again, alone?” Malcolm chuckled, but his smile was thinner, less friendly.

“My brave little girl.  Won’t you let your poor old Father protect you now and then?  I have your best interests at heart, though you may not believe it now.  Always the stubborn one, you were.  You never wanted to run away, never wanted to hide what you are.”

All the while, the man calling himself father was walking closer and closer to Hawke.  Fenris could see the distortions in the Fade surrounding him; powerful magic was being worked here.  Hawke’s eyes were pleading, but she stood still and silent, as if rooted to the spot.

“You’ve always wanted to be free, Marian.  I wanted to give you that life, all of you, not have you be chained to the Circle.  We don’t need to live by those rules.  Mages should be free to do as they please, live as they please.  You can have this, Marian.  All you need do is tell me you desire it.” 

The demon-figure of Malcolm Hawke now grasped the Champion by the shoulders, standing over her, bending closer.  For an instance, the mirage flickered and Fenris saw the twisting horns and spiny tail of a Desire demon against Hawke, its lips pressed over hers, dark magic ebbing from its breath and into her.  His gut twisted, his hands clenching and unclenching around the hilt of his sword.

“Patience.  You will see what I saw, many years ago.”  Hope touched his shoulder.  He flinched and drew away, but watched intently for what was to come. 

“Tell me you desire it,” the demon whispered in her ear, tracing her jawline with a clawed finger, “and it will be yours.” Hawke was breathing fast and shallow.  She closed her eyes and swallowed hard.

 “I…desire…” she murmured, opening her eyes.  The fog had lifted, but the desire demon was exulting in its triumph and did not see the fire that flashed in Hawke’s eyes.

“Tell me your desire!” It commanded, still tracing patterns in the tender flesh of Hawke’s throat. 

“I desire nothing that you can give me, demon!” Hawke shouted, breaking free from the desire demon’s grasp.  She brandished her staff in one hand, conjuring a flame in the other.  The demon sneered wickedly, abandoning its human disguise.

“I know the hearts of mortals,” It said scornfully, “for I am Longing.”  Hawke thrust her chin out in defiance.

“You don’t know my heart.  If you did, you would have known there is only one thing I want.”  Emboldened by her own words, Hawke took a step closer to Longing.

“You can’t change what I am. You can’t make me not be a mage.  This is who and what I am, forever, no matter how much I wish it.  That, demon, is my one and only desire: to not be a mage.”

“A foolish wish,” the demon scoffed, “when as you are now, you can have so much more than you have ever dreamed.  What of your freedom?  What of your life, hiding from the Circle, running from Templars?” 

“It’s the only life I’ll ever know.” Hawke admitted.  “I hope that one day, things will be different.  I hope that one day my parents will be able to sleep at night, without fear that the Templars will raid our home.  I hope that mages will not be feared and hated, that we will all be free to come and go as we please, without hiding, without fear of being made Tranquil.”  She turned away from the demon.

“But these are _my_ hopesfor the future, and I won’t let you pervert them to serve your ends.  I have to hope that things will change.  I have to believe that there is hope for all mages, those in the circle and apostates both.  Listening to a demon, turning to blood magic, will only destroy all of that.  We will never be allowed to be free as long as blood magic exists.”  

The demon looked askance at Hawke, as if analyzing her.  It looked off into the distance, and finally shrugged carelessly.

“And here I thought a young apostate mage would be easy prey.  Alas.  Perhaps Hope will give you strength in times to come, but I would not rely too heavily upon your hopes to bear you through every struggle.  Hope has a way of…changing.”  Hawke looked puzzled.

“What do you mean?”  The demon grinned darkly at her.

“Keep on this path, my hopeful young mage, and you will find out.”  Then the demon made a gesture, and Hawke’s appearance shimmered, and was lost.  The memory dissipated, and Fenris found he was alone once more with Hope.  He stuck his sword into the earth but did not release his grip on the hilt.

“Do you mean to tell me, spirit, that you witnessed this encounter and intervened on Hawke’s behalf?”

Hope shook her head.  “I witnessed the exchange, but I did not help the girl then.  I was drawn to her hope.  She lit the Fade like a beacon; it is not something oft encountered here.”  Hope smiled sadly.

“I watched her after that, and I was always there when she entered the Fade, whether as a dreamer or a mage.  I made her dreams a place of refuge, nourished the hopes she had for herself and her family.”

“And what were you seeking in return?”  Fenris asked distrustfully.  He had seen enough of spirits now, both of virtue and vice, to know that those with noble intentions could be just as deadly as those seeking power or destruction.

“I never revealed myself to her.  I was content only to watch and shield her from a distance.  Perhaps she never even needed it, but eventually I became enmeshed in her presence in the Fade.  It sapped much of my strength.” 

“Are you saying…you made Hawke an abomination?”  Fenris recoiled in horror, but Hope’s response was both vehement and genuine.

“We are not an abomination!  There is a connection, but it exists only in the Fade.  When Hawke is not in the Fade, I am not aware of her.  I cannot reach her.  But whenever she enters the Fade—to sleep, or for other purposes—I can sense her presence, and we are joined in a way I do not understand.”  Hope sighed ruefully.

“No good has come of my actions, though my intent was never to harm anyone.  I saw a light in the darkness only.” 

“What hopes were so brilliant you stumbled to them like a moth to flame?” Fenris queried, and then cursed his curiosity.  He was here to find Hawke, not gossip with a deranged spirit.

“I can see the hopes of all mortals.  When I first found her, it was exactly as she said; she hoped for a better world for mages and the safety of her family.  Imagine it as a picture,” the spirit said, sweeping its arm wide, and conjuring a vision of a family working together on a farm. 

Fenris recognized Hawke, Carver, and their mother, Leandra.  A slight girl with a turned-up nose was twining flowers in her hair; Fenris knew this to be Hawke’s sister, Bethany, who died in the escape from Lothering.  Leandra was seated beside a kind-faced man, with dark tousled hair.  This was Hawke’s father, then.  He was engaged in spirited conversation with his eldest daughter. 

The family gave off such a sense of belonging and togetherness that Fenris felt a twinge of jealousy, followed by shame.  He could scarcely remember his family; though the time he spent with Hawke had spurred a flood of memories, it had proven nearly impossible to retain them.  He remembered small flashes of his sister, and a soft voice singing in the darkness of a cramped room, and he remembered wrapping his blistered hands with scraps of cloth after hours of practice with the sword.

“Is this a memory, then?”  He asked, shaking himself free of such thoughts.  The spirit shook its ghostly head.

“It is what she wished would be.  Did she not speak of her life?” 

Fenris smiled to himself, remembering all the times she’d invited him to speak of his past.  He rarely asked her to speak of hers.  She must have known he needed someone to simply _be there;_ to hear what had happened, to know what he had experienced.  She had been content to be that for him, and through it, they became so much more.  And still she remained the listening ear, the confidant, never asking for anything in return.

Fenris resolved that once this was over, that would change.

“Hawke has always carried the burdens of those around her.  I don’t believe she ever learned how to let another shoulder hers.”  He said thoughtfully.

“I know those burdens well, and the hope she bore through them all.  Still, it changed; it was diminished over time, and it ate away at my life to keep her hopes alive.  Watch, and you will see.”  Hope gestured once again, and the shimmering illusion before him changed.  Now, a family of four was clustered around a table.  Malcolm Hawke was conspicuously absent, a chair left empty at one end of the table, but the fire’s warmth lit the Hawkes’ faces with a cheery glow.

Hope gestured again, and now Fenris recognized the young woman he’d met in Kirkwall.  She jostled her brother good-naturedly as they worked to renovate the Amell estate in Hightown.  Leandra and Gamlen stood on the balcony.  There was still tension between them, but their eyes were happy.

The image changed again, and now Hawke and her mother were planting flowers in the courtyard.  The elven servant, Orana, sat in the shade.  She played the lute and sang in a lilting voice at Hawke’s gracious request.

“Stop!”  Fenris demanded.  “I know of her life in Kirkwall.  Her brother died in the Deep Roads and Gamlen was a shiftless drunk who spat on their offer to live in Hightown.  Don’t show me lies, spirit, or Maker help me I will end you.”  Hope seemed unbothered by his outburst.

“They are not illusions; they are the dreams she once held.” It said, and something in its tone suggested he should have known this from the start.

“Why do you show me these dreams?  To what end?”   Now the spirit looked outwardly annoyed, if such a thing could be said about a spirit.

“To show you what an extraordinary spirit your friend possessed.  She looked for the good in all.  Even after her mother’s death, she continued to hope, to believe in a brighter future.  But now…my strength wanes.  I will not be able to shield her from the Despair, but you…you may yet save her.  There is more I wish for you to see.  Will you?” 

Fenris hesitated.  He was loath to accept this offer and see all the deepest parts of Hawke’s psyche displayed before him.  Worse yet, some part of him wanted to see, and he tried to quash that desire; some things were never meant to be spoken or shared.  Still, he did not dare refuse in case the spirit spoke the truth.

“I will, but only because you insist it must be done to save her.  I swore that nothing would keep me from her.”


	6. Chapter 6

It took all of Fenris’ self-control not to lash out at the spirit as it placed shimmering palms on his shoulders.  His tattoos thrummed and tingled at the contact, but it was the spirit’s proximity that disturbed him. 

“Accept this gift, then.  I offer you her hopes and dreams across the years.”  Hope gripped his shoulders tightly, almost painfully so.  Its eyes flashed brilliant blue-white, blinding Fenris.  A second later, he saw a series of images, blurred and distorted as the rest of the Fade, but unmistakable: Kirkwall.

He watched as the Qunari boarded a great ship in Kirkwall’s harbor.  The Arishok made a gesture of respect to Hawke, which she solemnly returned.  She stood on the quay with the Viscount and his son, watching as the ship departed.  Aveline had a full complement of the guard in attendance.  A great celebration was building; the Qunari had been convinced to leave Kirkwall peacefully.  Fenris knew such dreams had been entertained by many, but to no avail.  The Qunari presence in Kirkwall ended with blood.  Hawke herself killed the Arishok in single combat. 

Now the scene shifted; Hawke and the Grand Cleric were in talks with Meredith and Orsino.     He watched the dream unfold, the careful negotiations between the Chantry and the Circle.  He saw her deep in discussion with Anders; saw her convincing him to open up.  He felt a stab of hatred for the mage, made worse by the jealous pang in his chest at the tenderness and affection she showed him.  Still, he saw the same tenderness in her eyes when she looked at him.  Fenris saw her hopes for all her companions; she wished their happiness, nothing more.




“There is one last dream.” He heard Hope’s voice, faintly.  There was a brilliant flash, and he found himself immersed in the dream.  He felt the sun-warmed pavers beneath his feet and saw that he stood in Hightown.  Fenris looked around and saw the familiar streets; he was not far from Viscount’s Way.  Hawke’s house was close at hand.  He found himself walking through Hightown towards her estate, when a little child dashed past him, giggling.

“Cara!  My little dearest, why are you not with your uncle?”  A voice chided gently.   A dark-haired woman scooped the girl her arms and swung her around.  Fenris was stunned.  It was Hawke, though clearly she was some years older in this dream.  Her long black hair was tied in a thick braid, but the same careless bangs still fell across her eyes.  She was as beautiful as ever.




“He’s coming, Mother.” The little girl said obediently, and curtsied when her mother set her on the ground. 

“Well, go on then, go get Uncle Varric.  I’ll wait here.”  Cara grinned widely and ran off. 

“She’s so like you.”  A familiar voice made him freeze.  Fenris looked closer.  There was no mistaking the narrow features, the blond hair, now slightly thinning.  It was Anders standing with Hawke.  Anders.  His blood ran cold.  The visions did not react to his presence and strolled casually by.

“She still hasn’t shown any Talent,” Hawke replied, “but my parents didn’t know I was a mage until I accidentally curdled all the milk.  I was pretty good at keeping it a secret before that.”  They laughed together, and the sounds were as sharp and deadly to Fenris as a knife.

“She’s more interested in swordplay than magic, but she wants to join the Circle just to be with her brother.”

“I’m so grateful to you.” Anders said suddenly, his voice overcome with emotion.  “You’ve done so much for me…so much for mages.  Our children need not fear the Circle, now that it is open.  It is not what Justice demands, but it’s more than I ever could have hoped.”

Fenris clutched the red scarf around his wrist, reeling in shock.  _Our children._ Why would Hope show him this?  The demon had tricked him into seeing this—seeing Hawke’s love for another mage, and her dreams of a future, a family with him.  A vaguely detached part of his mind thought it all made sense; she was a mage, after all, and human, and nobility.  In an ideal world, she would not look twice at a filthy slave, marked by abhorrent magic and scarcely able to scrawl his own name.  Fenris looked away from the happy scene before him and started walking.  He could not stand to watch any more, and he fought the tight constricting pain in his throat, the burning in his eyes.

“Where are you, spirit?” He shouted at the sky, spitting in his rage as he stalked through the streets.

He passed the girl, Cara, running back across the square.

“Mother!  Mother, look!  Look what Leto and Father have brought!”  The girl carried a parcel wrapped in paper and tied with a red ribbon, but it was the name she uttered which made Fenris stop.

“Leto...” He murmured uncomprehendingly.

He watched in awe as an older boy jogged up behind his sister.  This child also had a dark shock of hair, though his eyes were the same deep green as the elf walking with him—as _his father._

Fenris saw himself beside the boy.  Older, to be sure, and less guarded, but there was no mistaking it.  Fenris was looking at a version of himself he never thought possible—the way Hawke saw him, perhaps, in the distant future.

“Hello, Leto!” Anders said. “How were your lessons today?”  The boy bowed politely before speaking.

“Hello, Anders.  The lessons are going well, but I didn’t see you at the Gallows today.  We were all hoping you would be teaching.  Alain isn’t nearly as much fun.”

“He’s a good chap, but it’s true, there’s only one of me.” Anders replied cheerfully.  “Truthfully, I had too much to do at the clinic today.  I’ll come round next week, I promise.”  He nodded at Fenris in greeting.

“Hello, Fenris.” 

“Anders.” 

Fenris was too shocked to even smirk at the fact that, even in Hawke’s dreams, the mage and he still clearly hated one another.  The dream-figure of Hawke seamlessly stepped between the two of them, diffusing the tension.  Varric’s timely arrival made it easier for her.

“Hey there, blondie.  Are we still on for Wicked Graces tonight?  Isabela’s back in town and drinks are on her this time.”  Anders looked relieved to have an excuse to depart.

“Only if you’re prepared to lose!”  He retorted.  He glanced back at Hawke momentarily.

“I meant it, Hawke.  Thank you.” 

“Oh, be off with you.  I share the credit for that with many people, you included.” She blushed slightly, but put an arm around the waist of his doppelganger beside her.  Fenris felt a surge of longing as he watched himself pull Hawke in close and kiss her passionately. 

“Your son is apparently quite a talented young mage, or so I am led to believe.” He growled, but there was a smile in his eyes.  Hawke fluttered her eyelashes.

“And your daughter is quite the little terror.” She replied.  “Did you see Varric’s face?  The poor dwarf was exhausted, couldn’t keep up with her.  She’s full of fight.  Like her father.”

“Like her mother.” Fenris corrected, and kissed her again.  “It’s what I love most about you, Marian.”

“Ewww, that’s _gross!”_ Cara said, breaking into giggles.  Fenris watched as a father lifted his daughter over his head, tossing her up and catching her, much to her delight. 

Leto was clearly a quiet lad, and he leaned against his mother.  She tousled his hair affectionately, bending over to kiss his forehead.  Then, the four of them turned and walked towards the estate.  There were climbing vines flowering on both sides of the door, and a child’s wind chime tinkled in the breeze. 

Fenris desperately longed to see more, but as the door closed, the vision faded and was lost.  He fell to his knees as the empty Fade presented itself once more. 

Hope was slumped on the ground beside him.  Without concern, he grabbed the spirit and shook it.

“That dream.  Was it truly Hawke’s, or did you fabricate it to deceive me?”  He demanded.  Hope managed to sit upright, resting against a rocky outcrop.  Had one even been there before?  He remembered no boulders, but knew that spirits could manipulate the Fade at will.

“I never created her dreams; I simply kept them safe.  What I have shown is the life she longed for most.  She hoped for a world where mages would be accepted and trusted, a world in which all mages were willing to _earn_ that trust.”  The spirit paused.  Had it been human, Fenris would have thought it was struggling to speak.

“And she hoped for a family, as well.”

“What, with me?” Fenris almost laughed aloud.  “Why has she never spoken of this?” There was a thrill beating inside his chest even as he questioned it.  He had never given thought to love until he met Hawke, and even after, he never once entertained the idea of a family.  To know that all along, Hawke dreamed of such things…Fenris felt the color in his cheeks, realizing that he had seen something she had hidden from everyone, himself most of all.

“I do not know.  I know only that she hoped it would one day come to be.”  The light that emanated from the spirit began to flicker.

“What’s happening?” Alarmed, Fenris released his hold on the spirit of Hope and backed into a fighting stance.

“I have used the last of my strength to prepare you for what you will face.” Hope said.  “I must tell you about Despair.”

“Tell me, then.” Fenris relaxed his grip on his sword hilt.

“Despair is born of Hope, weakened and eaten from within by grief or horror.  Even at the worst of times, I never felt such hopelessness from Hawke.  And then, the Veil was torn.” 

Fenris inhaled sharply.

“That _abomination_.” He uttered.  “When he blew up the Chantry and murdered all those people…”  He hissed a curse.

“Yes.” Hope agreed, but there was no malice in its voice, only sorrow.  “At that moment, the despair and terror of an entire city was felt in the Fade.  Many of its denizens took note.  The demons sought new victims through the tear.  I fear there will be many abominations in the city of Kirkwall.”

“Indeed.  I lost count of all we slew last night.” Fenris commented grimly.  “But how did this affect your ties to Hawke?”

“The last of her hopes were shattered, the fire extinguished.  I did not realize how much of myself was bound up in her dreams.  From the darkness that remained, Despair arose.  That despair gnawed at Hawke, and she pushed herself further, harder, until she used up all her strength and all her mana, and passed into the Fade.  Now Despair seeks to use Hawke to enter the mortal world as an abomination.  You _must_ stop this from happening.  I have used the last of my strength to shield her, but I cannot stop Despair.  We are joined.  One does not exist without the other, and so, I am powerless to stop it.”

“You are saying that when I kill Despair, you will also perish.” 

Hope nodded.  “Yes.  I wish an end to this.  My own foolish hope to spare a mortal the pain of despair has led to an even greater evil.  I have been forever changed.  I cannot go back to what I was before, and so I must die.” 

“Why the need for all this, then?” Fenris said irritably, gesturing vaguely in the air.  “Why don’t I simply kill you now?  I have no love for spirits.  I would do it, and gladly, if it saves Hawke.”

“Did you not hear me, elf?  Despair and I are joined.  It is Despair who holds the power, now, and her will keeps me here.  I am losing the struggle, but I cannot die as long as Despair lives.” 

“Of course.  It protects you to protect itself.” Fenris snorted.  “Where do I find this demon, and what can I expect from it?”

“It has created a web of false memories and illusion in which to trap Hawke.  It seeks to drive her to the final resort of any mage – to accept the offer of a demon.  I can offer you only one more thing before you face it.”  Hope struggled to its feet.  Despite himself, Fenris assisted the spirit. 

“Thank you.” It said.  “It is time.” With that, Hope channeled a great energy.  The very air was electric with it, and Fenris felt the lyrium in his skin humming in response to the magic being worked.  It washed over him like a wave, knocking him nearly senseless.  Hope was conjuring something powerful, pausing only long enough to speak a final farewell.

“Now, I will show you the truth so that you will know the lies.  Remember the truth of it.” It pressed its hand against his chest, and the shockwave knocked him off his feet.

It was not a physical pain so much as a sensory overload; too many emotions far too fast.  Fenris dropped his sword and clutched at his head, aware that he was screaming.  Skinned knees, bedtime stories, lessons in the schools of magic all mingled together.  On a sunny afternoon, a little girl with pigtails ran from a boy with a wooden sword.  Days and nights and winter mornings, summer afternoons swept past in an instant.  A first kiss was stolen in a hayloft, with more firsts quick to follow.  The night of the Harrowing was recounted again, followed by a cold blustery day and a funeral pyre.  The darkspawn and their filth, the sight of burning ruins in the distance and the bloodied remains of a beloved little sister. 

The high cliffs of Kirkwall loomed over the horizon.  Winding streets, the smell of filth and unwashed bodies assailed him.  Fenris saw recounted his first meeting with Hawke, watched through her memories of all their time together.  He felt a physical ache in his gut as he saw their lovemaking through Hawke’s eyes, and the sorrow she felt when he left.  There was more grief to be had, though; a mother’s mutilated body, and then countless dead in the streets as Qunari ravaged Kirkwall.  He felt the adrenaline, the exultation of battle against an Arishok. 

Beneath it all, Fenris sensed the hope that buoyed these memories, felt it begin to fray as Orsino and Meredith’s conflict escalated.  He felt the sting of hurt from Anders’ blackmail, and the worry Hawke felt when Danarius sprang his trap.  There were still hundreds, thousands more, vibrant as if they had only just occurred.  And then at last, he felt that hope crumble away altogether, the sinking realization that all had been for naught as the Chantry ruins smoldered in the night.

“There is no hope for you, elf.  You cannot save her.”  A whispered voice drifted through the air.  Fenris grabbed his sword and ran, following its taunts.

“Despair will find you all, and alone you shall perish.”  He felt it pushing against his will, the words battering at him.  He shrugged them off.

“Enough of your games, demon.  Show yourself!” 

“Come and find us.  Hawke is so _very_ lonely here…”  A malicious chuckle raised the hair on the back of his neck. 

Fenris ran headlong into the mists, finally emerging in a field.  He blinked in the sudden brightness and took in the surroundings.  A ruined farmhouse stood near at hand, and a man and woman hurriedly packed their remaining belongings on a wagon.  Two young children sat wide-eyed in the front of the wagon, hugging each other.  A girl stood apart from it all, eyes puffy and red from crying.  Instinctively, he knew it to be Hawke as a child.  He watched as the illusion began to unfold.

“We’ve lost everything.” The woman, Leandra, spoke to her husband.  “Why didn’t you teach her how to control the spell?”

“I had taught her!  We practiced this spell every day for a fortnight.  I told her to be careful, but she was careless.” He snapped back.  Then he rounded on his daughter.

“Now we have no home and the Templars are on their way, looking for a young apostate to make Tranquil.  That’s what they do, you know.  We need to run away and find a new place to hide, all because of you.  You’ve put the entire family in danger!  Think of your sister, Bethany.  The Templars wouldn’t hesitate to make her Tranquil, either.  How will you protect any one if you can’t manage a simple spell?” 

Fenris frowned angrily.  He could vividly recall this day in Hawke’s life.  He turned to the little girl.  She sniffled weakly, her lower lip trembling.  The sight of it tore at his heart, and he stepped in front of the accusing Malcolm Hawke.  The vision glared at him but took no action.

“You are not to blame, Marian.” He said kindly.  The child looked at him, and he could see Hawke trapped in her eyes.  He knelt down in front of her and took her hands.  She flinched but did not resist him.

“Think back to what truly happened that day.  You were casting the spell to light a fire in the hearth.  Was it a spell you had cast before?”  The girl nodded slowly.

“What happened this time that was different?”  Little Hawke’s gaze grew thoughtful, and she pursed her lips in concentration.

“Father was helping me with the spell.  It was just like all the other times, but then…Bethie and Carver came running in.”

“And what did they want?” 

Hawke smiled a little.  “They…they found a litter of kittens out in the barn.  They wanted to show me, so we could all pick out a cat.”  She frowned.  “But they accidentally bumped into me and I…lost control of the spell.  The table and chairs caught fire and started burning, but Father was there.  He stopped the fire. The house _didn’t_ burn down, and we didn’t have to move.”   

The image of Malcolm Hawke shifted, pointing an accusatory finger at Fenris.

“You will regret your interference, elf.  Despair will have the mage, and then she will find hosts for us.  We will know the mortal world, and you will know only death at our hands.”  The Hawke family abandoned their human forms, revealing three shades and a Rage demon.

“Get out of here, Hawke.  Run, as fast as you can, and don’t stop.” 

She turned on the spot and ran into the mists. 

Fenris didn’t wait; he ran up to the rage demon and ducked underneath its blow.  He partially phased his fist and tore through the creature’s body.  It roared in pain, summoning a fount of fire.  Fenris rolled across the ground, singed but otherwise unharmed.  He leapt to his feet just as the shades were upon him.  He whirled his blade in a devastating arc, dispatching all three in a single swing.  The rage demon erupted from the ground behind him.  Fenris called upon the lyrium in his flesh, directing a blast of magic backwards.  He felt the heat subside as the demon melted into the ground, defeated.  He panted heavily and wiped the sweat from his brow.

“You have defeated but one of my lieutenants.” The voice echoed around him.  “I must admit, Hope was more persistent than I anticipated; you were well prepared.  Still, be assured that your end is at hand.  You cannot save her from despair.  All mortals succumb in the end, especially in those brief moments before death.”

Fenris paced the clearing, a predatory look in his eyes.  “I will not be toyed with, demon.  I swore an oath that nothing would keep me from Hawke, and she knows I will honor my word.  You will fall.  Even if it means my death, Hawke will be free.”

“An intriguing idea.  Perhaps with you dead, she will be truly hopeless.” 

Fenris spat on the ground, muttering profanities under his breath.  He shouldered his sword and struck back out into the mists.


	7. Chapter 7

“Are you done with that, Varric?  We still have a lot to load onto the wagon.”  Aveline said impatiently.  The dwarf was fiddling with the wagonload and the sky was rosy with dawning light.  The rooftops of Hightown stood out in sharp relief, and the gaping absence of the Chantry in the city skyline mocked them all.

“Everything we can manage to fit.  Huh.  We’re _still_ leaving a lot behind.” The dwarf replied, tugging once more at the ropes securing their cargo. 

“It can’t be helped.” She stated, matter-of-factly, but her voice held a note of sadness.  They were all leaving much behind.  She shrugged and examined the wagonload.

“What else is there, besides Hawke’s estate?”

Varric looked through the hurried list they’d put together before disembarking the Siren’s Call.  “I went through Lowtown while you were briefing the guard with Donnic—I stopped in the Alienage and found the things Daisy asked us to bring back.  The Hanged Man was not quite in ruins; I managed to scrounge together some usual items of mine, and I just finished loading the last of your belongings onto the wagon.  That leaves Hawke and the elf.”

Just then, Sebastian came around the corner.  His face was covered in ash and soot.  White lines streaked down his cheeks from his eyes.

“I had to…see it, for myself.” He choked out.  “To convince myself there was nothing left to save, no one there to protect.  I just thought…maybe if I went there, she would be waiting for me, ready to scold me for leaving the Chantry again.”

Aveline’s gaze softened as she regarded the young man.  She had never really approved of Sebastian, or his plans to reclaim Starkhaven, but now was not the time to air such things.  Tonight, they were all united in grief.

“It’s understandable.” She said gently.  “Is there anything you need, Sebastian?  I know…all of your possessions were in the Chantry.”  The young brother shook his head.

“I have my life, and my friends.  The Maker will provide the rest.” He said vehemently, squeezing his eyes shut as if in prayer.  They were silent for a brief moment, until Aveline was spurred again into action.

“All right now, I’m going to go to Fenris’s mansion.  He only asked for one thing, but I’m sure there’s more he values.  I told Donnic to meet us at Hawke’s estate.  I’ll meet you there shortly, as well.”

Once Aveline had left, Varric and Sebastian rolled the wagon up to the door.  Varric knocked on the door.  The vicious barking and growling of a mabari sounded in respose.

“Easy, Dog.” He shouted through the thick timber door.  “It’s just us, your friendly fellow gamblers from the Hanged Man.  Can you open the door for us?”  Instantly the tone of the barking changed from threatening to playful.

“Can he really open the door, I wonder?” Sebastian asked.

“Ha, you should see him cut cards.” Varric chuckled.  There was a brief pause, followed by the sound of claws scratching against wood and the quiet _snick_ of the lock.  The doorknob turned and the door swung open.  Dog bounded out happily, wagging his tail and jumping in frantic circles.

“Easy there, boy.  We need your help.  Are you up to it?”  Dog sat at attention and barked once.  Varric nodded.

“Things in Kirkwall have taken a turn for the insane, to put it mildly,” Varric began, “and we need to get out of here before we lose the tide.  We have a ship in the harbor, and Hawke is on it right now.  I won’t lie to you, mabari, she’s not doing very well, but we’re taking good care of her.  I need you to gather everything important to her and bring it out here so we can load it on the wagon.  In the meantime, I need to speak with Bodahn.  Can you take me to him?”

The mabari barked again and ran back into the house.

“Come on, choir boy.” Varric called over his shoulder.  “Help yourself to the wine cellar on the way out; no sense in leaving the good stuff for looters.”

The Hawke estate was dark but for the wan light of dawn pouring in through the high windows.  Varric saw a figure carrying a lantern down the steps; it was Bodahn Feddic.

“Ah, Bodahn, there you are.”

“Oh Messeres!  I’m so glad you’re here.  It’s been so awful; I can’t believe what’s happened. We heard the explosion and saw the Chantry crumble into ruins!  Even worse, my boy disappeared and he’s nowhere in the house.  Please, help us!”  The young elf, Orana, was right behind him.  Her eyes were wide with terror.

“Please, Sers, help us.  Mistress never came home last night and after all that’s happened outside, I…I fear the worst for her!”

Varric immediately set to work calming Hawke’s frightened servants.

“Relax, Bodahn.  Your boy is safe with us—he’s on a ship in the harbor with some of our friends.  They’re taking good care of him.  What I need the both of you do to now,” he said, looking from one to the other, “is to gather up your belongings—only what you can carry, so only the most important things.  We have to get out of Kirkwall; it won’t be safe for very long.”

“Oh, thank the Ancestors for you, Messere!” Bodahn cried.  “I’ll just grab my storage trunk and be ready to go.”  The dwarf hurried off to another wing of the estate.  Orana approached Varric cautiously.

“Please pardon me, Messere, but what of our Mistress?  Where is she?”  Varric debated how to respond, opting simply to lie for the sake of saving time.

“She was injured in the fighting, but don’t worry, she’ll be just fine.  She couldn’t make the trip up to Hightown with all the stairs.  She’s waiting on the ship for us; she said she wouldn't dream of leaving you or Bodahn behind.”  The servant girl seemed visibly relieved.

“Thank you, Ser.  I will get my things.”  Varric stopped her for a moment.

“Whatever coin you’ve saved up, make sure you bring it with you.  I’m not sure any of us will ever be coming back to Kirkwall.”  Orana nodded and disappeared up the stairs.  Varric walked across the private family hall where he’d visited so many times in the past, and sighed.  He glanced up as Dog and Sebastian made their way through the room.  Sebastian was carrying a chest crammed full of clothing, books and papers from Hawke’s room.  Dog was carrying a staff in his jaws.  Varric recognized it as a Hawke family heirloom; the staff of Paralthan or Prathalan or somesuch, he couldn’t remember what she’d called it.

The mabari sat on his haunches near Varric’s side.  He let out a plaintive whine around the wooden staff in his mouth.  Varric sighed.

“Everything that Hawke and I went through to get here, Dog.  I talked her into joining Bartrand’s Deep Roads expedition, and it got Carver killed.  I tried to tell myself that it wasn’t in vain, that Hawke would have her ancestral home.  She would never want for anything, and her mother wouldn’t have to live in that pit in Lowtown.”  He drew his arm across his eyes.

“Now, huh…well, I wonder if any of it was really worth it.” 

Dog whimpered sympathetically and pushed his head under Varric’s hand.

“Good boy.  You understand.” He scratched behind Dog’s ears.  “Here, I’ll take that for you. You go get your little bed—I know you don’t want to leave that behind.”  Dog barked happily and trotted away, returning a short while later dragging a large round cushion.

Varric approached Sebastian and Bodahn.

“Do we have everything?” 

“I’ve packed all my and my boy’s belongings, Messere.” Bodahn dusted off his hands.  “I’ve also gathered some food stores from the pantry and a few bottles from the cellar, including a few of Egrigio Verani, 9:20 vintage, the Lady’s favorite.”  Varric chuckled at Bodahn’s description of “a few bottles”; there was enough there to get everyone aboard the Siren’s Call good and drunk.  Varric looked around for Orana, the servant girl.

“Where’s that elven lass?”  

“I saw her going up to Hawke’s bedchambers on our way down.” Sebastian answered as he gathered another armload of goods to bring to the wagon.  “Maybe she left something up there.”

“I’m here, Messeres!” The elf called down from the balcony.  Varric suppressed a laugh at the sight of her; the elven girl seemed to be wearing every piece of clothing she owned; the effect made her look quite round.  She had an old but finely-crafted lute slung across her back and she hugged a small chest.

“Ladybug,” Varric said kindly, “If you couldn’t carry everything, I would have helped you.  You didn’t have to put on all your clothes.”  Orana looked self-conscious and reluctantly allowed Varric to take the chest.

“I couldn’t carry the clothes and Mistress’s things at once.” She explained.  Varric examined the chest. 

“What's all this?  I thought Sebastian and the Mabari brought everything down.”  Orana shook her head.

“Not everything.  Those are Mistress’s _private_ things,” the serving girl said pointedly. “She showed me where she kept them one night while I played for her.” The slight elf gestured at the lute strapped to her back.  Varric made a thoughtful sound.

“Hm, I see. I promise I won’t disturb them.” He lied smoothly, much to Orana’s relief. 

“Thank you, Messere.  I am ready to leave, now.”  Sebastian stepped forward to assist the elf. 

“The wagon is just outside, Miss.  Please, come with me.”

Bodahn and Dog were hauling the last of the goods out of the entryway to the Hawke estate.  Varric stood alone in the great room, holding the chest.  It was unlocked, and he swung the lid open.  The chest was filled with an assortment of goods; Varric recognized Leandra’s necklace among its contents.  He fingered the locket gently. 

Hawke had worn the silver pendant for years until the chain broke during a visit in Darktown.  They had searched all day to find it, paid Coterie _and_ Carta thugs to keep an eye out for it among the trinket vendors and smugglers.  He had never seen the Champion so distraught, even when Leandra had died.  It had felt like one last failure, she said.  She had been unable to protect even a simple trinket, a reminder of her family.  It was already nightfall when a filthy street urchin came running up with the locket; Hawke dropped five sovereigns into his outstretched hands without a second thought.  After the boy disappeared into the dark alleys, Hawke opened the locket and showed Varric the tiny, painstaking portraits it contained; a father, mother, and two siblings, long dead now.

Varric rummaged further in the chest.  He pulled out a sheaf of papers tied with a red ribbon.  They appeared to be letters, but the writing was jagged and uneven, the letters large and exaggerated, like those of a child.  He pulled out the topmost letter and read its contents, a smile creasing his face as he did so.

_“Hawke,_

_I am writting you this letter as you asked.  To practise. I do not now what one sais in a letter.  I am well.  How arre you? I will sea you tomorow._

_Fenris”_

Varric gently tucked the parchment back in with its fellows and closed the chest.  He took one last look around the Hawke estate; the high ceilings, the crest adorning so many of the walls, the worn stones paving the floor.  He turned and left, closing the door.

Outside, he saw that Donnic and Aveline had returned.  The guard captain kissed her husband on the cheek in greeting.  Varric saw that she carried a few books and several different tunics belonging to Fenris.  She also had three bottles of wine under her arm.

“I’m glad we’re so well-provisioned for this little voyage.” He joked, gesturing at all the wine.  Aveline stowed the bottles aboard the wagon and shrugged.

“The way that slattern drinks, it’ll be gone in a week.”

“I give it three days.” Varric replied.  A braying mule interrupted him and he looked at Donnic in surprise.

“Andraste’s ass, Donnic, where did you find that flea-bitten thing?”  He laughed at his own pun. “Ha, Andraste’s ass, ahh.”

“I went to the Merchant’s Guild to buy one from their stables.  The dwarf watching them actually paid me 10 coppers to take the poor creature—now I know why.” He said, struggling to harness the beast to the wagon.

“You’re going about it all wrong, my friend.  Here, these simple creatures are motivated by the same things any man desires; food, sex, and sleep—usually in that order.”  He pulled something out of his pocket.  The crinkle of a wrapper had the mule’s rapt attention, and it stood still long enough for Donnic to fasten the harness.

Aveline raised her eyebrows.  “You just happen to carry peppermints around with you?”

“What can I say?  I have a sweet tooth.” Varric winked and let the mule take the candy from his outstretched palm.  Aveline looked around, surveying the brightening streets. 

“The nobles are all still holed up in the Viscount’s Keep,” she commented.  “And Lowtown was mostly deserted—people were fleeing to Darktown.  Still, we should get to the docks, and quickly.  We have a few more hours before we lose the tide.”

\--

Isabela wrung out a cloth and mopped Hawke’s forehead.  The Champion was still unconscious.  For a time, she had fidgeted restlessly, but now she was still and silent.  The rise and fall of her chest was the only sign she still lived.  Isabela wasn’t sure which was worse.

“Hang it all, Hawke.  You don’t do anything half-assed, do you?” She said to the Champion, a rueful grin on her face.  The oppressive silence of the room was bothersome and Isabela felt better having broken it. 

“And you,” she said, turning to Fenris’s sleeping form, “brooding for years and years over her.  We all _knew,_ Fenris.  You couldn’t take your eyes off her and you took every opportunity to be near her.  Now you come to your senses and then this happens.  I dunno, elf, I think you just might be unlucky, or you have a _really_ bad sense of timing or something.”

Isabela sank into the chair, letting her head hang over the back.  She looked up at the ceiling and sighed.

“Balls.” She muttered to herself.  “How long have I been sitting here, anyway?”  She looked over towards the door.

“Merrill, any sign of them yet?” She called.  The elf yelled something back, but her small voice didn’t carry very far.

“Can’t hear you, kitten.  Can you come down here?”  She heard Merrill’s feet on the stairs. The young mage leaned over the railing and looked down the hall towards Isabela.

“Yes, they’re at the docks now loading up a…now what is it called, a small boat or a ship, I don’t remember.”

“A skiff, kitten.  Good, Varric was able to find one after all.” Isabela stood and stretched. “Why don’t we trade places, then?  I’ll go up on deck and help them when they come aboard and you can watch our sleeping lovebirds, here.”  Isabela handed the damp cloth to Merrill as she passed and winked at her.  Merrill laughed shyly and blushed under the pirate’s gaze.

“Right, I can do that.” She said, and sat down by the bedside.  Isabela made her way up to the deck and peered out across the harbor.  She saw the skiff being loaded up and whistled sharply, drawing a wave from Varric.

“Bodahn!” Sandal shouted joyfully, clapping his hands and pointing at his father on the boat. 

Isabela watched as Donnic hoisted the skiff’s single sail.  It caught the morning breeze and billowed out.  She pulled out a small telescope and peered through it, smirking.  Hawke’s dwarven manservant looked particularly green, and Varric didn’t look much better.  Dwarves never did do all that well on the open ocean, in her experience.  Aveline was her usual stoic self, and Isabela bit her lip unconsciously as she spied Sebastian and Donnic.   Donnic held the rudder and Sebastian was doing his best to make adjustments to the sail.  The boat was riding low in the water, no question, but the harbor was usually calm.  The skiff would probably be fine.   Probably.  Isabela winced in sympathy as they crossed the wake of a larger vessel.  The spray splashed, and the elven girl in Hawke’s employ let out a frightened squeal.




“Easy there, boys.  You don’t want to capsize her.  Sebastian, take in that sail and if you’ve any oars, grab them and start rowing.  You’re almost there, just keep going.” She yelled helpfully.  Sebastian raised his hand in acknowledgement and lowered the sails.  A pair of oars dipped into the water and propelled the skiff slowly forward.  Isabela disappeared from the railing and came back with a coil of rope.  She tied it fast and held onto the loose end.  When the skiff was close enough, she expertly swung the rope over her head and threw it out towards her companions.  Aveline caught the rope and fastened it to the mast.

“Sandal, you’re a strong lad, aren’t you?” Isabela asked.  The dwarf smiled cheerfully. 

“In fact, I bet you’re strong enough to pull in that ship with your dad!” She said excitedly.  Sandal clapped and grabbed the rope, giving a strong tug.  Isabela left the dwarf momentarily and began working the block and tackle lift mounted on the deck of the ship.  The one benefit to a merchant’s vessel, she thought to herself.  It would be the work of a moment to hoist the skiff’s meager cargo.

By now the boat was alongside the Siren’s Call.  Isabela knocked a rope ladder down the side of the ship.  Aveline grabbed hold of it and gently pushed the servant girl towards it.  The poor thing was soaked and appeared to be wearing at least five sets of clothing layered one atop the other.

“I’ll be right behind you, don’t worry.” She reassured the elf.  Slowly, she took hold of the rope and started climbing, one rung at a time.

“You’ve got it, just like that.” Isabela encouraged.  She leaned down and held out her arm. “Grab my hand, now, good girl.”  She pulled Orana up onto the deck.  Immediately she ran to the center of the ship, as far from the railing as she could manage.  Isabela helped pull Aveline up onto the deck next.

“Right, Captain.  Let’s get this lot on the ship and get out of here.” Aveline held the rope steady while Isabela lowered the cargo mesh to the skiff.  Bodahn and Varric climbed the ladder next.  Donnic and Sebastian remained behind to empty the boat.  By now, the sun had crested the horizon completely, though Kirkwall’s high cliffs kept the harbor in shade.  Aveline looked at the sky critically.

“Will we have the tide, Isabela?” 

“Psh, of course we will.  Anyone trying to follow us, though…well, they won’t get beyond the reef.  Unless they run aground and decide to swim out into the open ocean.”  She laughed to herself and leaned over the railing, but Aveline noticed that she glanced at the horizon nervously before shouting down the side of the ship.

“How’s it coming down there?” 

“Almost done.  We should be able to fit everything.” Donnic paused for a moment, holding the net to steady himself as a wave rocked the skiff.  Sebastian grunted with exertion, lifting a canvas bag.  The unmistakable clank of heavy glass came from within.  Isabela’s face brightened.

“So you raided the wine cellars after all!  Well, that makes this whole leaving-Kirkwall-in-a-panic thing much more tolerable.”

Finally, the last of it was packed into the cargo net.  Aveline and Varric turned the wheel that raised the cargo.  The pulley creaked noisily as the rope ran through it, but the rig was solid and held as they hoisted their belongings aboard the ship.  Sebastian and Donnic climbed up the ladder and swung themselves onboard.

Everyone looked tired, but Isabela clucked her tongue at them.

“Tsk, tsk.  We aren’t out of Kirkwall yet.  Weigh anchor!” 


End file.
